


The Burning of the Leaves

by blueink3



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, John is an idiot, M/M, Parentlock, Puppies, Reichenbach Feels, Sherlock is a Mess, Sholto is a good friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-10-23 07:51:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10715289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: After the events of series 4, Major Sholto invites John and Sherlock to lunch one day. It nearly proves to be too much for their tenuous relationship as the past haunts the present, putting the future that Sherlock so desperately wants at risk.





	1. Now is the Time for Stripping the Spirit Bare

_Dear John,_

_I apologize for the delay in writing back to you. Per your urging, I’ve been more attentive to my physical therapy and my sessions with the trick cyclist. I’ve also taken up gardening (God help us all) so my attention has been otherwise occupied._

_It would be wonderful if you would visit. I welcome the chance to get to meet little Rosamund. And please bring Mr. Holmes. I should think we have a great many things to talk about._

_Warmly,_  
_James_

Sherlock narrows his eyes as he reads John’s response in his sent mail:

_Absolutely. How’s next weekend? We’ll bring lunch._

_J._

Next weekend? But Sherlock had planned a day of doing absolutely nothing. He had written it down in his mind palace calendar and everything. John didn’t even bother to check with him.

A ding indicates an incoming message and Sherlock clicks over to the inbox to find Major Sholto’s response. What annoyingly impeccable timing.

_Don’t be silly, I have a chef. Next weekend is perfect. I’ve attached directions, but if you get lost, you have my number._

_Best,_  
_James_

Sherlock marks the email as unread, closes the laptop, and leans back with a huff, refusing to acknowledge that the growing feeling getting heavier in his gut is not annoyance, but dread.

He has nothing against the good Major, not particularly. It’s not a crime to befriend John Watson, even if he did get there before Sherlock did. But there seems to be an intimacy, an ease that they interact with beneath all of the stiff upper lip bravado that Sherlock envies. He and Sherlock had it once. Then Sherlock jumped off a roof and they never quite found it again.

_“Neither of us were the first, you know.”_

He shakes his head and stands with a growl, halting his strop as his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out to find a reminder to pick up Rosie from daycare, because some appointments are too important for just the mind palace calendar.

After all, it seems to be becoming more and more faulty, even on the best of days.

xxxxxx

He walks with his head bowed and his hands shoved into his pockets, a scowl on his face as if daring any pedestrian to come within three meters of him. He’ll need to school his features before he gets to the daycare center. Marie knows him - John put him on the list the day he signed Rosie up - but as he catches his reflection in a passing shop window, he realizes Marie would be well within her right to hold onto Rosie until he came back looking slightly less homicidal.

This whole business with Major Sholto has him… not concerned, but cautious. This is territory that is not his and Sherlock has never been good at being an outsider. At sharing.

He pauses in the middle of the sidewalk, causing a few muttered curses from the passersby that must break around him like water on a rock, and takes a deep, steadying breath.

_Okay. Onward._

Raising his head, he walks the final block to the center and checks his appearance in the glass door just before pulling it open. Not that Rosie cares what he looks like. In fact, her favorite moments seem to be lazy afternoons nuzzling into his dressing gown as he reads her excerpts from John’s favorite fantasy novels.

“Sher!” the one-year-old shrieks as she catches sight of him, and he smiles widely, even offering a wave as he signs in. By the time he finishes, Rosie is hanging onto the gate that divides the playroom from the lobby, bouncing on her toes, and reaching up as he walks over.

“Hello, Watson,” he says as he lifts her onto his hip, offering a nod and a smile to Marie who waves. “Say goodbye to Miss Marie,” he urges and Rosie turns to wave distractedly before holding tight to Sherlock’s lapels and babbling nonsense about her day. He interjects at all of the appropriate moments as he gathers her little bag from her designated cubby and walks her out into the rare afternoon sun. It’s just after 2pm and John will be home by 5:30pm. Perhaps he and Rosie will finish their experiment on biscuits in the meantime.

The experiment lasts about an hour, upon which Rosie reaches the peak of her sugar high and tears about the flat for another hour, before passing out for a 20 minute catnap. Upon waking, she climbs onto Sherlock’s stomach as he lays on the floor, interrupting his musings on spores, and just lays there, little ear resting over the steady _thump thump, thump thump_ of his heart.

He’s not aware of how much time passes - Rosie has that effect on him - but next thing he knows, John is standing in the doorway, plastic bag of Chinese in his hand, smiling softly at the pair of them as Rosie attempts to stand on Sherlock’s stomach while he holds her hands.

“Oh, hello,” he grunts as Rosie steps dangerously close to his groin. “Okay, that’s enough of that.” He leans up and scoops her onto the floor so she can run to John, who bends down and places the takeaway on the floor just in time to catch the toddler that hurls herself at him with a squealed “Dada!”

Takeaway is good. Takeaway is a sign that John is not going to take Rosie and immediately go back home. Because despite Sherlock’s deepest, most fervent, and decidedly secret wishes, John and Rosie do not live at Baker Street.

It is a fact that shatters a bit more of his heart every time his brain pauses long enough to remind him. And John taking him to see Major Sholto will not make them any more of a unit, no matter how many emergency contact forms Sherlock’s name appears on for both Watsons.

“Good day?” John asks, breaking Sherlock’s rather morose thoughts, and Sherlock realizes the question is addressed to him since Rosie is too busy pressing her tiny finger onto her father’s nose to bother with pleasantries.

“Yes, quite good,” he replies, grunting slightly as he stands and follows John into the kitchen, taking the food from him so he can strap Rosie into her highchair with a kiss.

“Hello, my love.”

“Food!” Rosie yells and kicks her feet as Sherlock snorts.

“Takes after you then,” he murmurs and John waits until Rosie is distracted by the rice he puts in front of her before giving Sherlock a two-fingered salute. They go about a perfectly choreographed, well-worn dance around the kitchen, pulling out plates and opening cartons. John opens the trash can and barks out a laugh.

“Clearly the biscuit experiment was a success,” he muses wryly and Sherlock flushes.

“She’s not a fan of fig rolls.”

“I see that,” he says, pulling out a nearly full package from the rest of the carnage.

They fill their plates and take a seat. John pulls Rosie’s highchair closer so he can nudge the broccoli into the path of her grabby fingers. She gives him a look of disdain she no doubt learned from Sherlock, but eats anyway.

“Anything on this weekend?” John asks too casually and Sherlock stiffens, fork of General Tso’s chicken hovering in the air.

“Why do you ask? You know how unpredictable London’s criminal class can be.”

John smiles and nods. “Indeed, I do. It’s just James - Major Sholto - invited us out for lunch and I thought we could make a trip of it. The three of us.” He swallows and plays with the paper napkin in his lap as Sherlock takes the bite and studies the pork fried rice on his plate.

“Oh?” he manages.

“Yep, James specifically asked that I bring you too. I know you’re busy, but I thought…” he trails off and Sherlock looks up and meets his eye. John shrugs. “I thought it might be nice.”

And _damn,_ Sherlock can never deny him when he looks like that.  “All right.”

John’s eyes light up. “Yeah?”

“Sure.” He wonders if John has ever been that excited to see him at any point in their lives.

“Wonderful, I’ll let James know. Maybe we’ll rent a car.”

Sherlock bats the thought away with a flick of his hand. “We’ll steal one from Mycroft.”

He makes a note to make sure it has a carseat, but ever since Sherrinford, it seems that little Rosamund Watson has taken even The Queen’s spot in Mycroft’s supposedly hollow heart.

It would be amusing if it weren’t so disconcerting.

xxxxxx

Saturday comes all too quickly and finds Sherlock watching John attempt to wrangle Rosie into her tiny stockings in the middle of the sitting room. She has decided that clothes are not on the agenda for today and that particularly includes the cotton dress her father is trying to get her to wear for the occasion. Sherlock honestly can’t fault her for it. If he could remain in his dressing gown, he would.

“Please, love. We’ve got to get going,” John begs, coaxing her flailing arms into the sleeves.

With a huff, Sherlock flounces over and gently takes hold of her squirming body. Apparently this struggle has been an ongoing battle, ending with John giving up and just bringing her to Baker Street in her pajamas.

Her fussing quiets as Sherlock gently pulls her into his lap as he sits on the floor and begins to recite one of her many baby books from memory. Eventually, John is able to get her arms through the sleeves without her even noticing, because the entire width and breadth of her attention is solely focused on the movement of his lips, which she reaches out with a tiny finger to touch. He presses a kiss to it and lifts her off his lap.

“There,” he murmurs, smoothing down the blue fabric. “That wasn’t so bad, was it.”

She ignores the question and immediately takes off in the direction of John’s chair, attempting to reach the stuffed bee that’s just out of her reach.

Sherlock glances back to John, who’s staring at him - not with awe, but something close to it. Something that warms and exhilarates and _terrifies_ him.

“We should get going, yes?” he quietly asks, almost afraid to shatter whatever this moment is, and John clears his throat, dropping his head and packing the now-discarded pajamas back into Rosie’s bag.

“Right.”

Sherlock stands and busies himself at the window, discarding his dressing gown for the suit jacket he had draped over the back of his chair. He can see the Land Rover idling outside (car-seat included) as one of Mycroft’s minions waits to hand the keys over.

“Ready?” John asks and Sherlock nods as he turns, mindlessly brushing crumbs from John’s breakfast off of the man’s lapels as he passes. It’s a personal gesture - one he finds himself second-guessing, even as it’s too late to take it back. It’s what significant others do. Spouses. And since Sherlock is neither, he curses the intimacy of the habits living with John has borne.

“Would you like to drive?” he asks when he becomes capable of words. “I’d be more than happy to entertain Watson.”

John blinks at him, having managed all of three syllables since they got Rosie’s clothes on, but he nods all the same and leads the way out of the flat, scooping Rosie from the floor and letting Sherlock take the nappy bag from his shoulder.

They’ll be driving just about an hour and a half, depending on the M40, heading for some unknown destination buried in the countryside between Oxford and the Cotswolds. John remains silent as he buckles Rosie into her seat, gets behind the wheel, and leads them out of London.

Rosie is content to stare out of the window for the first half hour of the drive, calling out at anything in particular that catches her eye as John and Sherlock reply in turn: “Yes, that’s a dog. Good girl.” “Bird. Yes, Rosie.”

After an hour it gets quiet and Sherlock turns to find his “I Spy” partner in crime passed out in the backseat. The last twenty minutes or so are spent in silence with nothing but the low radio for company. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s not easy either. Ever since that morning, there’s been something lurking in the shadows. Something in every silence, every pause, that is desperate to remain so painstakingly unsaid.

If only Sherlock’s lungs didn’t feel like they’d collapse under the strain.

The roads get narrower and the towns get quainter the further into the country they go until, finally, John turns the Rover onto an unmarked dirt road. Sherlock opens his mouth to ask if he’s sure this is the right place, but John is the one to whom Sholto gave the directions. Presumably he knows where he’s going.

(As if it really matters - Sherlock would follow John into the gates of hell if the situation called for it.)

There’s a young woman in some sort of uniform walking down the lane just ahead. John slows to a stop next to her and lowers the window.

“Hi there,” she greets.

“Hello, I’m John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes, sir.” She smiles, shielding her eyes against the rare peek of sun. “I’ve heard much about both of you. I’m Sasha, head of the Major’s security.”

“Good to meet you,” John says, shaking her hand through the window.

“He’s expecting you. Go on down. You can’t miss it,” she says, gesturing to the winding driveway and giving Rosie a little wave as they start back up.

John gives a low whistle as the trees part and the house comes into the view. It’s got a foot in the past and a food in the present, blending stone and brick with concrete and glass. Sherlock can’t help but raise his eyebrows at the impressive mix of architecture.

“Dog!” Rosie yells and, sure enough, a Weimaraner puppy comes tearing out the front door followed by her much slower owner. Her enthusiasm proves to be a bit much for her uncoordinated paws to handle and she faceplants as she gets to the gravel driveway, but barely misses a stride as she reaches the car and promptly starts yipping.

Sherlock is already in love.

He opens the door and gets out, bending down to scratch behind her grey, floppy ears. She gnaws at his hand and he gladly lets her, but clearly the Major is in the process of trying to put her through puppy basic training.

“Alice, no biting,” he clips and she switches to licking, which Sherlock can’t help but smile at. “Mr. Holmes,” Sholto greets, offering his hand.

Sherlock stands and wipes his hand on his coat before taking it. “Major.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for the invitation.” It’s been a long while since they were last in each other’s company. Back before John gained a daughter and lost a wife. Before Sherlock died and resurrected himself more times than any one man should be allotted in life.

Sholto bends down and scoops the puppy into his good arm. “Please call me, James.”

“Sherlock, then.”

The Major’s eyes drift from Sherlock to just over his shoulder, and Sherlock doesn’t need to be a consulting detective to know what has caught his attention.

“James.”

Sholto’s gaze warms and he puts the puppy back on the ground so he can step forward and grasp John’s hand that’s not holding Rosie. “John.”

They’re past the salutes and formalities. Stopping one from bleeding out at one’s wedding has that effect on people, he supposes. War, too.

Much is passing unsaid in the look they share - a history that Sherlock will never, and could never, understand. It is not his place to. Feeling like a voyeur, he shifts his gaze to Rosie, whom no one would fault for being scared of this new man and his scars, but instead she stares at him contemplatively with only the shyness that meeting a new adult can cause. He feels a burst of pride at that.

“And this must be Miss Rosamund,” Sholto says and John shifts her in his arms, as if just remembering she’s there.

“Yes, indeed. Rosie, say hello to James.”

She offers a bashful smile and a tiny wave, which draws a smile from the hardened Major. Sherlock bends down and scoops up the puppy who’d taken up residence on his shoe.

“She’s beautiful, John,” Sholto murmurs and John beams, cutting his gaze to Sherlock as if to include him in the little exchange. As if Sherlock had something to do with how perfect Rosamund Watson is.

He smiles in return and raises his eyebrows as if to say _Obviously._ John chuckles and follows as Sholto turns to lead them into the house.

“So you did get the dog,” he says, reaching over to pet the puppy still burrowing into Sherlock’s chest. Rosie watches, absolutely besotted.

“I did,” Sholto replies. “And she’s a right terror, but I love her anyway.”

“I know how that is,” John laughs, pressing a hard kiss to Rosie’s cheek.

“Bring her on in, Sherlock,” the Major says. “I don’t want to leave her outside alone until she’s bigger. You never know what animals she’ll come across in these woods." 

Sherlock complies and follows the party up the few stairs to the porch and the cool shade of the foyer beyond. The second he puts Alice down, the dog goes skittering off across the hardwood floor to pounce on her dog-bed and gnaw at an unsuspecting plush toy.

It’s just gone noon and the sun is high in the sky, though Sherlock saw the clouds in the distance. Sholto’s limp is significantly less noticeable and his arm seems to have a bit more range of motion. As his letter said, the physical therapy seems to be paying off. It’s odd to see him outside of his dress uniform, wearing just a simple pair of khaki trousers and a button down. He’s more relaxed in familiar territory and, for the first time, Sherlock can truly see why John was so drawn to him.

John has set Rosie down and she totters over to him, holding onto his trouser leg and smiling widely at him. “Hello, Watson,” he murmurs and she buries her face in his knee as he runs his fingers through her curls. When he raises his head, Sholto is speaking to John, but watching them intently.

Sherlock clears his throat, scoops Rosie up, and carries her into the living room as she shrieks in response. Sholto and John are conversing about some such thing - an old general they used to know - and Sherlock takes a moment to catalogue the room. It actually looks quite comfortable, despite the rigidity to which the Major lives his life. It’s all plush leather sofas and books on stained wooden shelves and a fire crackling in the hearth to fight off the early spring chill.

Sholto clears his throat and Sherlock realizes that the conversation about the general has come to an end. “Anna, my chef, has put together a wonderful spread for us. I’m not sure if you’re hungry yet, but if not, perhaps a brief tour?”

“A tour would be lovely,” John replies, stepping forward and tugging gently on Rosie’s shoe, causing her to giggle and pull away. “Her majesty had a snack in the car, so she won’t start raising hell for a while.”

Sherlock puts her down and Sholto smiles as she makes her way over to the dog-bed and settles down next to the puppy. “Perhaps Alice will join us.”

“Or else Rosie will never leave,” John snorts. “Come on, darling.”

Rosie lifts her head and places a careful palm on Alice’s back. “Dog?”

“Yes, yes, the dog is coming too,” John chuckles and Sherlock feels a pang in his chest that is becoming all too frequent these days. And it has nothing to do with the phantom pain he sometimes feels in his sternum from the bullet Mary so kindly gave him.

Sherlock busies himself with glancing about the room once more as John wrangles Rosie’s tiny jacket on her (clothes are _really_ not on the agenda for today). He feels Sholto’s eyes on him again and he’d really rather be anywhere else at the moment. What he wouldn’t give for a good murder, he thinks, before pausing. Perhaps not at the Major’s expense again, though. Bit not good, that.

“I’ll show you the grounds before the weather turns,” Sholto offers, breaking Sherlock from his rather morose leanings.

Rosie and Alice are already standing at the door, looking back at the adults with impatience. Sholto bends down with difficulty and gets a leash clipped to the puppy’s collar. He opens the door and Alice bounds out, taking her master along for the ride. Rosie tries to follow but reaches back blindly, knowing that either John or Sherlock will grasp the tiny hand she’s holding out to help her down the uneven stone steps. John is the first to get to her and she beams up at him with all the trust in the world.

“Dada.”

“Yes, my love. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock’s heart hurts again.

They pass through a garden containing greens, tomatoes, and the occasional flower. Sholto points out the more stubborn of the weeds and Sherlock makes a note to discuss homemade remedies with him later. He’s done some tests that may prove helpful.

There’s a stream just visible through the woods and a rabbit occasionally darts out of a hole, disturbing the twigs, which sends Alice into a tizzy of yipping and straining against her leash. Rosie toddles forward and latches onto a finger of the Major’s injured hand. He stops and stares at her as she grins guilelessly back. John sighs in contentment before falling into step beside Sherlock and gently nudging his shoulder.

“You all right?” he asks quietly, as Sholto continues to lead them down a path that surrounds the house, slowing his pace so Rosie may keep up with his longer stride.

“Yes, why?” Sherlock stiffly replies.

“You’re just quiet, is all.”

Sherlock shrugs, a gesture ill-befitting a man of his talents. “This visit is about you and the Major.”

John frowns and stops, bringing Sherlock to a halt on the path beside him. “It’s about all of us.”

Sherlock kicks a rock with the toe of his shoe. The sentiment is nice and all, but in the battle for John Watson’s attentions and affections, he’s not sure he’d win if Major James Sholto were his opponent.

“He invited you specifically,” John stresses and Sherlock concedes the fact.

“Yes, but you see me nearly every day.” Not nearly. It _was_ daily. “You should catch up with the Major while we’re here.”

John stares at him in a way that makes Sherlock feel like he’s being marked for vivisection.

“Yeah, all right. Just… “ John trails off and, for once, Sherlock has no idea what was supposed to complete the sentence. “Yeah.” John turns and follows Sholto, bending down to pick up a flower for Rosie on the way.

Sherlock closes his eyes and, not for the first time, wonders why on earth he decided to throw his lot in with sentiment’s losing side.

xxxxxx

Lunch proves to be a pleasant enough affair. The Major’s chef certainly pulled out all of the stops with smoked meats, cheeses, and freshly baked bread. They even splurge with an ale. Sherlock urges John to a second, offering to take over for the drive home.

Conversation is easy. Sholto asks about the recent cases and Sherlock obliges, editing out the more grisly details. Rosie has become adept at picking up what they say. John got a particularly amusing (to Sherlock - John called it “mortifying”) call from Marie about Rosie’s use of “murder” in the playroom. Sherlock was thrilled that she added a new word to her vocabulary. John had preferred it be something a bit more toddler suitable.

It’s both easy and hard to see the camaraderie that John and Sholto share. Easy in that the looks shared in a long friendship fortified by dire, extenuating circumstances are obvious to spot. Hard in that Sherlock wishes he were blind for the day. He never handled jealousy well - a fact he’s not proud of - and it’s never been more clear than it is in this moment. All of the dates he’s crashed and potential one night stands he’s ruined for John pale in comparison to Major James Sholto. His relationship with John is undefinable (data incomplete) and because of that, Sherlock is nowhere near prepared for this battle.

At least the beer is warming his stomach.

“Do you speak to any of the other lads?” John asks and Sholto smiles.

“Murray writes. As only Murray can.”

John snorts. “I’m sure. The last time I saw Murray, we got kicked out of a strip club only to be escorted to the VIP section of Soho’s trendiest club. I had been having a rough go and it was his idea of a good time. I still have nightmares about that hangover.”

“When was this?” Sherlock asks, because surely he would remember such an event, but John’s smile dims.

“Ah, it was… a while ago. While you were... um.”

_Oh._

“Dead,” Sherlock supplies and John nods.

Silence descends.

Sherlock can practically feel the weight of Sholto’s gaze darting between the two of them. He shrinks further into his seat.

Sholto clears his throat and holds up a fork. “Miss Rosamund, can you tell me what this is?”

“Fork!” she shouts and Sherlock feels a great rush of fondness for the old Major. He continues in much the same fashion, holding up objects for Rosie to name, and when she gets stumped on one, he repeats it until she has it down.

Enough time passes to allow John and Sherlock to collect themselves and for the sky to darken outside.

“Oh, dear,” Sholto says as he stands to clear the table. “Seems we may have lingered too long for you to beat the weather.” Rain begins to patter against the windows.

“I’ll check to see how long it’s set to last,” John offers, pulling out his phone as Sherlock stands.

“Let me help with that, Major - ”

“James, Sherlock.”

“James,” Sherlock sheepishly replies, taking the plates from his one good hand. He can feel John’s stare, because really, how often does Sherlock actually offer help? But the Major saved them from acute embarrassment not long ago. It’s the only way Sherlock knows how to show his appreciation. That and homemade organic pesticide recipes for his garden.

The wind picks up and sends branches beating against the house. Sherlock carries the plates into the spacious, stainless steel kitchen and places them in the sink as Sholto follows.

“Just leave them. Anna is coming by in the morning.”

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock replies and it’s true, he doesn’t. He removes his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt.

“You’re the guest,” Sholto argues, but Sherlock leans his hands on the counter and closes his eyes. Tight.

“Please, James.” He needs this. He just - needs a moment.

“I do apologize for earlier,” Sholto murmurs.

“You weren’t to know,” Sherlock replies, collecting himself and running the warm water. “It’s a price I don’t think I’ll ever stop paying.”

Sholto’s hand hovers in the air, but whether he means to argue or merely offer silent comfort, Sherlock doesn’t know. Sholto eventually leaves him to it, bringing in the remaining cutlery, but not saying a word.

Sherlock suspects the reason he hasn’t seen John is because Sholto is keeping him at bay and he’s grateful. John can be so tedious when he’s suppressing his feelings.

Rosie eventually toddles in and wraps her arms around his leg, grinning up at him as if he personally hanged the sun.

“Hello, my darling girl,” he murmurs, words he only whispers when no one is around to hear them. Because she’s not his and never will be. “Have you come to fetch me?"

She nods even though she probably doesn’t understand him, so he puts his suit coat back on and allows her to drag him back into the sitting room. The sky has darkened further and lightning casts shadows on the trees dancing in the wind.

John and Sholto are speaking in hushed tones - John on the sofa, Sholto on the chair - and both stop to look at him as he enters, swinging Rosie into his arms.

“Could be a few hours,” John says, uneasiness in his eyes. Lightning flashes as if to prove his point.

“Down,” Rosie demands, squirming.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows at her.

“Down, please,” she amends and he lets her loose.

“Could get _you_ to say it more, you know,” John grumbles from the sofa and Sherlock can’t help but smirk. It’s true.

 _“Sir?”_ A female voice echos from the wall, sounding tinny and distant as the storm continues to howl outside.  

Sholto grunts as he stands and hobbles over to press a button on the intercom. “Yes, Sasha?”

_“Just got a radio report from the constabulary. The storm has knocked some trees down and the main road is blocked.”_

“Ah.” James glances at John who looks to Sherlock with a small wince, as if to say, _I’m sorry, I know this wasn’t the plan._

But despite the emotional minefield of the day, Sherlock cannot deny that it hasn’t been... unpleasant. He might even go so far as to say _nice._ He _likes_ the Major, as much as he wishes he didn’t.

_“If the wind picks up, we may lose power on the property briefly before the generator kicks in. Should only last a moment or two.”_

“Thank you for the warning, Sasha. We’ll batten down the hatches,” Sholto - James - replies.  

 _“Very good, sir,”_ Sasha laughs and signs off.

Rosie is standing by the door to the patio, tiny hands pressed against the glass, and watching the lightning make shadows dance across the backyard. A rumble of thunder shakes the house a moment later and she screams, running back to bury her face in John’s knees.

“It’s all right, love. It’s all right.” He crouches down on the floor and she damn near crawls into his lap. “It’s just a storm.”

Sherlock finds himself going over and running his fingers through Rosie’s soft curls. “Watson, thunder is caused by the lightning you love so much, which is essentially a stream of electrons flowing between or within clouds. The air surrounding the electron stream is heated to as hot as 27,000 degrees Celsius, which is three times hotter than the surface of the sun, if you can believe it. As the superheated air cools, it produces a resonating tube of partial vacuum surrounding the lightning's path. The nearby air rapidly expands and contracts, which causes the column to vibrate like a tubular drum head and produce a tremendous crack. So, really, nothing to worry about at all.”

Rosie has at least stopped crying as she stares at him blankly. John gapes in downright awe tinged with amusement. Even the Major seems to be holding back laughter.

“Well, I guess that’s that,” James eventually says, shrugging as much as he can. “I’ll show you where the spare bedrooms are and get you some clothes to sleep in. I’m sure Gemma’s hoarding spare toothbrushes around here somewhere.”

“We’re sorry to impose - ” John starts, but James waves him off.

“Not an imposition at all. It’s actually…” he ducks his head a bit, “nice to have company. We’ll just bunker down.”

“Like the good ol’ days,” John replies, still stroking a comforting hand up and down Rosie’s back as she jumps with every crack of thunder.

_The good ol’ days._

Sherlock wanders towards the glass doors and looks out on the violent, unforgiving landscape, like something out of a Bronte novel. Alice nudges his calf with her snout and he bends down to pick her up, burying his face in the warm crease behind her ear.

“You’re not scared, are you, girl,” he murmurs. She licks him in reply.

He wishes he had that kind of courage.

It’s not even gone 5pm, yet. John showed him the radar - they’re in for at least another three hours of heavy rain, and given the damage that’s already been done, common sense says they’re not getting out of here this evening.

Sherlock sighs and turns, watching the man he loves comfort the girl he considers a daughter, as the man who once held the heart of the man who holds his studies all three.

It’s going to be a long night.

 

 

 

Alice: 

 


	2. Time for the Burning of Days Ended and Done

**_“I believe I am in need of medical attention.”_ **  
****

**_“I believe I am your doctor.”_**

_He remembers panic. Panic in his chest at talking a man down from death. Panic in John’s eyes, just beneath the cool veneer of his Hippocratic oath, at watching his commanding officer nearly die on his watch._

_Nearly._

_“Mary, can you go get me a first aid kit?” John asks as he drops his morning suit jacket on the chair and begins to roll up his sleeves. “The front desk must have one.”_

_“I’m the nurse here, remember.”_

_“Mary, please!” he snaps._

_“All right.” She brushes by Sherlock with nearly a huff, as John eases Sholto down onto the edge of the bed._

_“What can I do?” Sherlock asks, because if the only nurse is leaving, then he should at least make himself useful._

_“Help me undress him.”_

_Sholto reddens and John, seeing this, snorts._

_“No time to get bashful on me now, Major.” He leans in closer, probably thinking he’s out of earshot. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”_

_Sholto huffs out an embarrassed laugh and it’s all the confirmation Sherlock needs as ice, cold as a January frost, settles in his gut. John doesn’t… John’s not..._

_“Sherlock?”_

_“Right,” he manages, taking a step forward, clumsy fingers working on the gold buttons of Sholto’s dress uniform._

_“Leave the belt where it is. Get everything undone as best you can and that’ll be the last to go. I just need Mary to get back with something to pad it.”_

_“Okay,” Sherlock murmurs, used to this role reversal by now thanks to Bainbridge._

_Sholto grabs John’s wrist that’s currently taking his pulse. “Watson - John - I didn’t - ”_

_“Hush, James.”_

_Sherlock had seen it when Sholto first arrived - the look that passed between them alluding to a history Sherlock thought impossible - but to see it up close like this…_

_His mouth goes dry and he tells himself the prick at the corner of his eyes is nothing but dust._

_“John?” Mary returns, brandishing a first aid kit. He takes it from her and it’s to her credit that she steps back to the other side of the already crowded room, out of the way._

_“Sherlock, when I tell you, I want you to unclasp the belt and immediately help lower the Major onto his stomach. James, scoot up if you can so you fit on the bed.”_

_Sherlock takes Sholto’s elbow and helps move him further up towards the headboard as John pulls out every piece of gauze the kit has._

_“Sherlock, do you understand?”_

_He nods and gives the Major a tight smile. Sholto returns it as best he can. John gets on the bed behind him, hands braced on the Major’s shoulders to pull the jacket from his back._

_“On my count. Three… two… one…”_

_Sherlock flicks the clasp of the belt, which falls away as John efficiently pulls the dress jacket off Sholto’s shoulders. The Major allows Sherlock to tilt him sideways, hand firm in his, and ease him onto his stomach as John staunches the already oozing wound with gauze._

_“Just like old times, hm?” Sholto asks and John huffs out a breath._

_“Please shut up, sir.”_

_“Oh I think we’re beyond ‘sirs’ at this point,” he murmurs, gaze honing in on Sherlock still kneeling beside the bed. “You were right, Mr. Holmes.”_

_“About what?” he whispers. Sholto gives him a lopsided smile and closes his eyes, knowing he’s in the safest hands he could possibly be._

_“We wouldn’t do that to John.”_

“Sherlock?”

“Hm? Yes?” Sherlock replies, blinking back to his surroundings. Sholto is standing above him, holding out a cup of tea.

“I asked if you were hungry. Bit more informal this time around - I was just planning on having Anna’s leftover shepherd’s pie from last night. But there’s plenty.”

“Oh.” He’s not hungry, but it seems rude to turn it down. “Yes, thank you.” He takes the cup and stands, following Sholto into the kitchen. He must have been in his mind palace longer than he anticipated. The clock on the microwave now reads 6:33pm.

John is sitting at the small breakfast table in the corner, Rosie in his lap as he spoons bits of pie into her mouth. They didn’t think to pack the portable highchair, not realizing they’d be staying longer than a lunch. Spoon-feeding her is the only way to ensure both her hair and her clothes get through the meal unscathed.

“Hey,” John murmurs as Sherlock sets his cup down on the table.

“How is she?”

“The thunder isn’t as loud in here,” John replies, nodding at the stone walls.

Rosie holds a hand out to Sherlock, which he takes and kisses.

“Are you enjoying that?” he asks, because despite John’s best efforts, there’s still mashed potato all over her face.

She nods enthusiastically and opens her mouth, letting John scoop another bite in.

“Good.” He turns to find James pulling a bottle of wine out of a cabinet. When he sees Sherlock watching him, he shrugs as best he can.

“I don’t have company often. It’s nice to indulge once in awhile.”

“Allow me,” Sherlock offers, taking the proffered wine bottle as Sholto hands him the opener.

“How long have you had the house again?” John asks, and Sherlock breathes easier. The kitchen was feeling slightly too claustrophobic for his taste. Property history is safe territory.

“It’s been in the family for years. At least the original foundation,” he replies, pointing to the stone walls that surround them. "The additions I added after, well…” He gestures vaguely to the scarred side of his body. “I forget that they hadn’t been started when you were last here.”

Sherlock pauses, corkscrew halfway into the bottle, as John inhales sharply.

Ah. Not quite so safe then.

Sherlock clears his throat and pulls the cork out with a tremendous pop. Rosie claps her hands as if he’s just achieved some great feat and he feels his face heat, knowing (and hating, for once) that he is the center of attention.

_“If they’re such good friends, why does he barely even mention him?”_

_“He mentions him all the time to me. Never shuts up about him.”_

One at a time, James moves the three glasses closer so Sherlock may pour the Cabernet, which he does with a (thankfully) steady hand.

“I didn’t realize you’d been here before,” he says casually ( _too casually, idiot_ ) as he turns and hands John his wine glass.

John lifts his nose from Rosie’s curls, looking pained. ‘“It was a long time ago. I didn’t even recognize the address. I...” he trails off and Sherlock isn’t sure whether or not to believe him, but he finds that deducing the truth is more than his stomach can handle. He places his glass on the counter without taking a sip.

“Major, I noticed you’re susceptible to damp in the corner of the living room where the stone meets the drywall. Has anyone been by to inspect recently?”

“Oh dear me, no. Do you think it’s that bad?” James’ concern for the state of his plaster is a tad over the top, but Sherlock is grateful for the branch the Major is extending. A lifeline. 

“I know a guy. Owes me a favor. I could have him come out and take a look,” Sherlock offers offhandedly. He doesn’t dare look back at John.

“I’d appreciate that,” James says with a small, knowing smile as he takes a sip of wine.

And that’s how all three of them survive dinner.

xxxxxx

They’re seated on stools around the island in the kitchen, having properly inspected the threat of mould and finished the last of the (admittedly delicious) shepherd’s pie. Sherlock takes a moment to study John, having spent the majority of the meal nattering on about anything and everything, if only so the silence, so full of pain and uncertainty and awkwardness, wouldn’t fall again.

By the time he finishes his diatribe on the sorry state of the prawn population, he realizes he’s scarcely drawn breath for a full ten minutes. Taking a hearty gulp of his wine, he sinks down onto his stool, wishing more than anything he could burrow into his coat and make the world go away.

They’ve chosen their positions carefully, if not necessarily consciously. The island is shaped like an L, with James at the head, Sherlock on the long side and John, tucked away in the corner across the way where both sides meet, trying to remain a neutral party. As if Sherlock and James are making him choose and he’s playing his cards close to vest in an effort to not pick favorites. A ridiculous notion if there ever was one.

Sherlock would never make him choose because Sherlock knows he’d lose.

James stands to collect their plates, but this time, John beats him to it. “Allow me.”

John carefully piles the dishes, eyes firmly on the task at hand as James shoots Sherlock a look over his head. It’s probably meant to convey something along the lines of _Talk to him, you git,_ but Sherlock feigns ignorance and goes to the corner by the potbelly stove to run his hand through Rosie’s curls as she sits petting an absolutely blissed out Alice.

“I should get rid of Gemma and hire you two,” James jokes, watching John do the washing up.

“I know of one person who would be more than happy with that arrangement,” Sherlock replies. He’s referring to Rosie, of course, but if the way John’s back stiffens is any indication, perhaps the offhand comment encompasses more than just the child looking up at him with eyes so like her father’s.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head.

He shouldn’t be here.

“Sherlock?” James’ voice breaks through his thoughts and he glances up to find him holding another opened bottle of wine.

“Please,” he replies because if he’s meant to endure this evening, then the least he can do is get pleasantly intoxicated for it. And it truly is the least. He knows the promises he made to John. He knows the promise he whispered to Rosie as she slept in her cot so many months ago.

Clean for both of them, but mainly for her. Because she deserves the world and every good thing in it.

Another crash of thunder sounds and the lights flicker. Rosie whimpers and immediately crawls into Sherlock’s lap and he rocks her back and forth. Alice trots over and nuzzles her with her snout as the lights flicker once again before shutting totally off, sending Rosie into hysterics. She doesn’t like the dark. Not yet, at least.

“Love, it’s all right,” John murmurs as he abandons the dishes and swiftly crouches down next to Sherlock, running a hand up and down Rosie’s back. His other hand rests on the back of Sherlock’s neck to keep his balance, and Sherlock tries his damndest not to lean into the touch. “Sweetheart, it’s okay.”

Sherlock continues to rock, making “shhh” noises as James lights a candle before pulling a torch out of a kitchen drawer. He can feel John’s breath on his face.

“Should just be a moment before the generator kicks in.” James brings the candle over and sets it on the floor next to the little huddle, sending the shadows on their faces into sharp relief.

“There we go. See, Watson? Look at me,” Sherlock urges and, after a moment, she pulls her face out of his shirt and blinks up at him. “Hello, my darling girl,” he breathes, freezing when he realizes that, no, he and Rosie are not the only two occupants in the room. _Fuck._

John’s hand at the back of his neck tightens, but Sherlock daren’t look at him.

“Dada,” Rosie flings an arm out and catches John on the nose. He chuckles and takes her hand, but she doesn’t seem eager to move from Sherlock’s lap anytime soon.

He makes the mistake of glancing up and catching John’s eye, seeing the dim light dancing from the flame in his irises, and time (as horrifically cliche as it sounds) stops (not literally, obviously, that would be stupid).

“Do you want to take her?” he rasps and John smiles, shaking his head.

“She’s good where she is.”

The generator kicks in and the lights come back on with a groan, illuminating James on the other side of the kitchen where he had retreated to leave the family to their moment.

And as Sherlock blinks down at Rosie in his lap and John still at his side, he realizes that is what they are - a family - no matter how many times John may try to deny it.

Not that he does deny it. He hasn’t, but still. Sherlock can see it in his eyes. Perhaps. There’s also the very real possibility that he’s just being paranoid.

“All better, love,” John murmurs, leaning in and pressing a kiss to Rosie’s golden head as his hair brushes Sherlock’s chin. “See?” He gestures at the brightly lit kitchen around them.

“Yeah,” she wobbles, rubbing a tired hand over her eyes.

“I should get her to bed soon. At least the fact that she threw a fit this morning over proper clothes means I actually have pajamas for her," John says as he stands and Rosie reaches up for him.

Sherlock offers her up and but then pauses when John reaches out the hand that’s not holding her to help him off the floor. He takes it and tries to remember not to hold on longer than strictly necessary.

“Thank you,” John murmurs and Sherlock frowns.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes you did. You always do.” They hold the gaze for a moment longer before John clears his throat and lets go. “Rosie, say goodnight to Sherlock, love.”

She automatically tilts her head out, lips puckered, eyes closed. She hasn’t quite mastered the art of the kiss - it’s more of a headbutt - but Sherlock bends down and presses his lips to her warm cheek all the same.

“Goodnight, Watson.”

James clears his throat, says “I’ll show you where the bedrooms are,” and he and John disappear out of the kitchen. Sherlock closes his eyes and leans against the counter, letting his head drop between his shoulders.

This used to be easy. Or, easi _er_. Now he and John are a bloody battlefield and no one knows where the damn mines are.

He remains in the kitchen for a decent amount of time. Enough for John to get Rosie down as long as she isn’t fussing and return to the living room with James. Perhaps Sherlock can sneak out and make his way to his own room without being press ganged into something tedious like conversation _._

He shares a glance with Alice and stealthily moves into the hall, listening to the murmur of voices he hopes to avoid. Unfortunately, John and James have not settled in the living room, as he had so desperately hoped. No, they’re standing in alcove separating the kitchen from the wing that Sherlock needs to sneak through to reach his room and escape this ennui. Because of _course_ they are.

James’ head is bent close to John’s, but Sherlock can still make out what he’s saying.

“... deserves better. John, you’ve got to.”

“Yeah, I know,” John snaps, but it contains little heat. Mainly resignation.

 _What?_ Sherlock thinks. _He’s got to what? Who deserves better?_

The blasted hardwood floor creaks beneath his feet and he curses as John and James glance up in his direction.

“Sorry - I was just - “ he flounders under their gaze. “Which way are the bedrooms?” _Smooth._

“Ah,” James begins, beckoning him but not before sharing a loaded look with John. “Right down the hall here." He gestures that Sherlock should follow and James leads him past a closed door (where Rosie must be) to another room at the end across the way. “Just in here.”

The door opens to a cosy room with a bureau and a queen-sized bed. James has already rustled up a t-shirt and sweatpants from his basic training days and a spare toothbrush. “Let me know if you need anything at all."

“I’ll be fine.” Sherlock manages a tight, but grateful smile. At the end of the hall, he can see John hovering. It’s not even gone nine o’clock and Sherlock doesn’t sleep even after completing a 72-hour investigation of a triple murder. A storm in Gloucestershire is not excuse enough to retire this early.

John knows. And Sherlock knows. And Sherlock knows that John knows.

“Help yourself to anything in the kitchen,” James says. “Midnight cup of tea, perhaps.”

And with that, he steps back, giving Sherlock leave the close the door on all that he’s running from.

xxxxxx

The wind has died down and the thunder has tapered off, but the rain still batters the house and sleep proves to be more elusive than usual.  

He watches the small clock on the bedside table hit one o’clock before rounding two. Even with the trees banging against the house, It’s still too quiet out here in the middle of nowhere. He misses the buzz of the city, the sound of traffic, the _energy_ that got him tired enough that he could drop off with some gentle persuasion from John.

John.

He sighs and burrows further into the pillow.

There was a time when John allowed him to hold him as he cried. When Sherlock let down his defenses enough to let John in as he detoxed. But the time of heightened drama has passed and they seem to have settled into a new normal of awkward pauses and overly cautious conversation. Perhaps they got too close to what they once were and backed off. Perhaps they almost touched what they could have been and ran in the other direction. Sherlock isn’t sure ( _hateful_ ) and this isn’t his territory ( _truer words were never spoken_ ). He needs John to lead, to make the overture. And if that makes Sherlock a coward, so be it, but he will not lose what he’s already gained on the chance of a hope.

He pulls the covers over his head and huffs out a frustrated breath into the duvet, remembering James’ offer of a midnight cup of tea. Though he’s two hours late, he doesn’t think the offer would be rescinded.

Tossing the covers back, he pads across the room and opens the door with a wincing creak, wishing he had a dressing gown to pull tighter around him. The shirt that James gave him is actually quite comfortable, but large, stretched out with age and made to fit a body more built than Sherlock’s lean frame.

He finds Alice sitting on the floor by his door and her tail wags with a _thump thump thump_ against the hardwood when she sees him. He picks her up so her excitement doesn’t wake the other two people sleeping in the bedroom just across the hall and she licks his face.

“Good evening to you, too,” he whispers, scratching behind her ears as he enters the alcove, which branches off in one way toward the living room and the other way toward the kitchen. He sets her down and she immediately trots over to her dog bed in the kitchen (she seems to have one in every room - despite James’ grumbles, he really does dote on her). His decision made, he follows her and flicks the kettle on, deducing where James keeps the mugs on his first try.

A noise from the living room startles him and he leaves the kettle to boil as he makes his way over - _Oh_.

“Apologies - ” Sherlock starts but James shakes his head from the chair he sits in.

“None needed. Come on in.”

“I was making tea - would you like some?” It’s odd, being this polite. He finds he doesn’t mind.

“Something stronger instead?” James offers, holding up his tumbler full of amber liquid. Only then does Sherlock notice the bottle of very nice scotch on the sideboard, still ¾ of the way full. Not a constant habit, but an occasional indulgence then.

“All right.” He wanders over and gets a glass from the tidy drinks cart (more for show - he can only assume he and John are some of James’ only guests), pouring himself two fingers of the Oban.

“I see you have a shadow,” James murmurs and Sherlock smiles down at Alice as she stays close to his heels. He goes and sits in the leather chair closest to the fire and scoops her into his lap, where she turns in a circle, before plopping down comfortably.

“She’s lovely,” he says, stroking her ears once more.

“She’s been good company,” James replies. “Judgment free.”

“Always nice to have.” If it’s said a bit bitterly, James doesn’t comment. It’s a bit unfair, to be honest. Sure, John judges (ears in the crisper, for example), but he’s loyal to a fault.

_“I know you’re for real.”_

Sherlock shakes his head and takes a sip of his scotch. It burns his throat and he’s grateful to feel something other than numb. “I don’t sleep much,” he says, by way of explanation for his middle of the night sojourn and James smiles ruefully.

“I don’t sleep _well_.”

Sherlock can only imagine. His own demons sometimes come out to play at night, when he lets his guard down, but Major James Sholto has a lifetime of them barking at the gates.

“I know it’s inconvenient for you, but I am glad you and John stayed.”

Sherlock is too, to an extent. “Likewise.”

“Are you?” James presses and Sherlock frowns into his drink, thinking hard. The answer is obviously important.  

“I am,” he says truthfully.

James is looking at him in that way John sometimes has - as if he sees every fault, every doubt, every self-recrimination Sherlock has lain at his own feet - and doesn’t care a whit for it.

“It pains me to see you and John like this,” James says eventually.

“Like what?” Sherlock asks because he honestly doesn’t know what people think when they look at them. At first, it was that they were shagging. Next - well - they weren’t in each other’s company enough to think of much. And now, if he’s with John _and_ Rosie, people assume they’re just another happy family, which in a way, is worse than the period immediately following his return, when time with John occurred under duress.

“Careful with each other,” James clarifies. “John used to tell me of your adventures. ‘Careful’ was not the word I’d use to describe them.”

Sherlock smiles genuinely, thinking of shot cabbies and bombs at Westminster. “True enough.”

“You’re hurting,” James says after a quiet moment. “Both of you.”

And oh God, if that’s not accurate, Sherlock doesn’t know what is. He presses a hand over the ache in his chest, not really knowing if it’s the old wound acting up or if its epicenter is a tad closer to the left.

“If I’m not mistaken, it’s been that way for quite some time,” James says gingerly. The _Since you died_ remains unsaid.

“Did you see him?” Sherlock asks (rasps, more like) taking a large gulp of the scotch.

James frowns. “When you were gone?”

Sherlock nods, but daren’t look at him. That’s what started this hateful mess, isn’t it? His _leaving_. It doesn’t matter how noble his intentions, Sherlock died, was resurrected, and Jesus Christ himself could not mend the mess that followed.

“No. I read what had happened in the papers and I wrote to him, but... I never heard back.”

Sherlock swallows, but remains silent.

“I understood, of course. I honestly had doubted that John was doing much talking to anyone. But I, too, had endured scrutiny amidst terrible, terrible loss. I felt it… necessary... to reach out, even if I was probably in no fit state to offer any sort of comfort.”

“I’m sure he was comforted all the same,” Sherlock quietly replies and James studies his glass, tipping it this way and that, watching the alcohol glow gold in the firelight.

“He never told you about me, did he.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No.”

James hums. “No, he wouldn’t, would he.”

Sherlock doesn’t necessarily follow the line of thought and is honestly too terrified to pick up the thread.

“I loved him,” comes a moment later - three words that confirm every fear Sherlock has kept under lock and key in the crook of his supposedly hollow heart.

Sherlock swallows. “I know.”

“I don’t anymore,” James says, almost gently. “Not in that way, at least. We were different men then. John has always kept the more… personal, emotional aspects of his life close to the vest. It was the same with this - us - I suppose.”

But it wasn’t. John paraded enough girlfriends under Sherlock’s nose for him to know that James Sholto was different.

“He loved you,” he simply says instead.

James shifts in his chair and takes a slow sip from his glass. “I’m not one for oversharing myself. But yes. I like to think he did.”

“He didn’t say it?” Sherlock finds that odd. But then he wracks his brain to remember any declarations to Mary and comes up wanting.

“I was his commanding officer. It was a war zone. Love had no place there.”

Sherlock thinks of John in the middle of Afghanistan, watching friends die around him. Getting shot himself. If Sholto was even the smallest measure of comfort to him, then Sherlock cannot fault him for that.

And then James says something that absolutely _floors_ Sherlock:

“I was a stepping stone to you, you know.”

Sherlock blinks, parsing each individual word over in his mind to see if there is any other order for them to be spoken in that he might have misheard. “Excuse me?”

“You,” James repeats, gaze suddenly fierce. “John is meant to be with you.”

“No… that’s not - he’s not…” Words fail him and he goes to take another sip only to find that his glass is empty. _Damn._

“I think this conversation calls for a bit more liquid fortification,” James says, somehow standing directly in front of him. When did that happen?

James takes Sherlock’s glass from his limp fingers and refills it at the sideboard, pushing it back into his hand and (thankfully) making sure he has his grip before he lets go.

“Major Sholto - James - I believe you’re… mistaken. John doesn’t - _feel_ \- that way about me.” The words are halting but they come and Sherlock is immensely grateful.

And James, of all things, chuckles.

“Doesn’t feel that way about you? Sherlock, he _loves_ you.”

Sherlock is shaking his head, because it’s fine if his most fervent hopes whisper that in the dead of night, but for James Sholto to just… say it _out loud._ It’s just not _on._  

“I might have had my chance. Once. But that was a very long time ago.”

“Before you died?”

“Before I died.”

James takes a long sip, gaze locked on the fire in the hearth. “As someone who once lost John Watson’s trust, I know it’s not won back easily.”

“And you think I’ve won it back?”

James huffs out a laugh, but there’s little humor in it, eyes finding Sherlock once more. “Do you not see what I see?”

“I don’t know what you see,” Sherlock spits, feeling surly again.

“You’re that child’s father,” James says and something in Sherlock’s chest clenches. Painfully.  

“John is her father,” he manages.

“A person can have two. And you’re one of them. John trusts you enough to help raise his daughter. You think that doesn’t mean something?”

“It means - ”

“ _Love,_ Sherlock. It means love.”  

He shakes his head again (he’s been doing a lot of that this evening. He feels like Rosie when they’re trying to get her to eat anything green).

“Has anyone bothered to ask what _you_ want, Sherlock? You seem to have been awfully accommodating since you returned.”

Sherlock can’t help it, he snorts. It’s rather undignified. “Accommodating” may be the world’s biggest understatement.

“It wasn’t accommodation...” he says instead.

“It was penance,” James finishes for him.  

Sherlock looks up and, after a moment, nods. How is it that this man knows him so thoroughly? The broken must recognize their own. 

“I want them to move back in," he finally admits and he expects James to smile - after all, this is progress - but instead, he frowns.

“They don’t live there?”

Sherlock cocks his head. “No?” He clears his throat. “John hasn’t lived at Baker Street since before. Unless you count the time he stayed with me while I recuperated.”

“Ah, yes. The gunshot.” James nods and Sherlock wonders how much he truly knows about _that._ “Well John brought you up so often in his emails, I just assumed.”

“No. He and Rosie…” He has to stop and swallow. “He and Rosie don’t live there.”

“Have you told him that? That you want him to move back in?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “He needs space, he said. Time. I don’t know what for.”

James tilts his head in a way that seems to say _You’re being silly_. “Don’t you?”

Sherlock frowns.

“I know what happened in the morgue,” James reveals carefully, gaze flitting across his face as if he can still see every injury. “You’ve got a scar in your left eyebrow. John give you that?”

Sherlock studies his glass again, almost reaching down to touch his ribs. He swallows, but his dry throat gives him nothing but a clicking sound.

“You and I are acquainted with John Watson well enough to know his self-flagellation is nonpariel.”

Can’t argue there. John is rather adept at guilt. Both feeling it and making it felt. He’ll stay away because he thinks it’s in Sherlock’s best interest, despite the fact that it’s the very thing Sherlock fears. John Watson can be so frustratingly _noble_.

James is staring at him as patiently as Ella does and Sherlock can feel the words (words he’s admitted to himself only under the cover of darkness) come, no matter how much he may wish them to stay buried:  

“I’m in love with him.”

 _There_ , he breathes. It’s said. It’s out and Sherlock, despite everything, feels the lighter for it.

James smiles brightly, _proudly_ almost, and opens his mouth to speak, but a board creaks behind him and Sherlock looks up, even as his heart plummets.

Because John stands in the doorway, arms full of a Rosie who’s recently been crying, staring slack-jawed at Sherlock in a way no deduction can parse.

_No._


	3. Let Them Go to the Fire with Never a Look Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincerest apologies for the tardiness. Real life, ya know? It sucks.

Sherlock always wondered how the least of the human population could succumb to the blind panic that occasionally drowns the weak, but in this moment, with John staring at him in a way that is so infuriatingly _John_ (unreadable, beautiful) Sherlock begins to understand panic on a truly visceral level.

Hyperventilation starts it off, followed swiftly by a pale pallor and an erratic pulse. He desperately needs to put his hands on his knees, but he daren’t take his eyes from John’s face. And when on earth did he stand? 

“Sherlock…” John breathes and _his_ name in _that_ voice snaps something inside him. He puts the tumbler of whiskey down on the coffee table with a trembling hand and takes a step back.

“Apologies, I was just… in need of…” But his transport is failing. The panic beckons.

“Sherlock, don’t -” John moves forward and Sherlock steps back, James a calm island between their stormy seas.

Rosie is picking up on the tension and beginning to fuss again. She'll evolve into full blown wailing in a moment or so. The fact that Sherlock knows this cracks something secret inside of him.

 _“You're that child’s father,”_ Sholto had said.

“I'm not.”

“Not what?” John asks.

Nothing. Nothing. _Delete_.

“Sherlock,” James murmurs and it’s that that gets him to claw his way to the surface. James is staring at him in a way that simply says _It’s time._

But then Sherlock glances back to John and all semblance of courage deserts him.

Rosie chooses that moment to express the potent power of her lung capacity and Sherlock flinches, but at least John’s attention is diverted. His heart breaks with every hiccuping sob that leaves Rosie’s mouth but John is no longer crushing him under the weight of his gaze. He looks down and forces air past his lips.

_In and out. In and out._

“Shh, shh, darling,” John coos, pressing his nose to Rosie’s temple as she cries into his chest. “I know, love. It’s okay.”

She squirms enough that John puts her down where she promptly runs across the room and buries her face into Sherlock’s knees.

Oh _Christ._

She’s so little, looking up at him with all the trust in the world as her tiny fingers hold his sweatpants in a deathgrip. As if he alone can keep the bogeyman at bay. The anxiety is back, clenching his lungs in a vise as his heart beats double-time.

“I can't do this,” Sherlock murmurs.

“What do you mean?” John asks, stricken.

Rosie continues to cry and Sherlock continues to panic. He gestures futily at the child clinging to him, the child he wants to comfort more than anything in the world, but it’s not his job. Not his place.

“I can’t - I'm not - She needs you.”

John shakes his head. “She has you.”

“I'm not enough.”

“Sherlock - “

“I’m not her father!”

“You’re right!” John yells. “You're not!”

“Watson!” James barks, every bit the Major, and John’s spine snaps to attention despite the fact that he seems determined to say whatever hurtful thing is coming next.

“You think you’re not her father, but I _want_ you to be!”

 _Wait_ , Sherlock gapes. _What?_ That was not how he was expecting this conversation to go and all he can do is blink numbly, all thought coming to a grinding, shattering halt.

Rosie gets a hold of his limp hand and tugs, breaking the stranglehold John’s gaze has on him.

_Oh, Rosie._

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says, dropping to his knees and bundling her up in his arms. She’s warm and solid against his chest, and he allows himself to close his eyes and breathe her in, unsure of what the next few minutes will do to his position in her life. Her sobs quiet into hiccups and, eventually, she’s too busy tracing the letters on his faded t-shirt to care about parental squabbles.

“God, Sherlock,” John’s voice breaks. “I want you to be.” He gestures to the child in Sherlock’s arms and visibly swallows. “You already are in every way that matters.”

Sherlock glances at James, as if to confirm that, yes, he’s hearing this too. James still looks ready to jump in and defend Sherlock’s honor, which is both decent and all the proof Sherlock needs that this is actually happening.

John takes a step forward, testing the waters, and when Sherlock doesn't step back, he chances another.

James gives him a warm smile and clears this throat. “Rosie, Alice, and I are going for a walk around the kitchen, I think. Aren’t we?” he directs down to the baby, but her acute gaze is darting between each of the men in her life, as if wary to leave them on their own.

“Come on, my dear,” James coaxes, bending down and scratching Alice behind the ears as she leans against his leg. Rosie eventually lets go of Sherlock and follows, the promise of playtime with Alice proving to be too much of a draw, leaving Sherlock and John finally, and terrifyingly, alone.

“John,” Sherlock licks his lips and continues to stare at the floor, “I think I need you to repeat what you just said to me.”

John steps forward and kneels in front of him, taking Sherlock’s cold hands in his warm ones. “Be Rosie’s father. Do this with me. I can’t - I need you. _We_ need you.”

“She’s not mine - ”

“Yes she is. She’s…” John trails off and visibly swallows. “She’s your darling girl,” he whispers and something inside Sherlock cracks open, bringing forth every emotion, every hope, every feeling of love he’s tried to keep boarded up behind muscle and bone and sheer force of will.

“Now,” John’s voice wobbles, “I think I need _you_ to repeat what you just said to James.”

Sherlock closes his eyes because saying those word again, aloud, _to John,_ goes against every instinct his body has - protect, conceal, hide.

“You weren’t meant to hear that.”

“Why?” John asks, voice rough. “Why would you deny me that?”

“Deny?” Sherlock gives a bitter laugh. “Let’s talk about denial.”

_I’m not his date. We’re not a couple. I’m not gay._

John at least has the good sense to look contrite. Ashamed, even. Sherlock knows there’s a lot about the inner workings of John Watson that he is not privy to, no matter how hard he looks. He knows John didn’t have the easiest childhood and with Harry… He could make excuses all day, but the fact of the matter is that it hurts. Denial hurts.

“What if I want to hear it?” John asks, so quietly Sherlock almost doesn’t hear him.

“What?”

John leans in and cups Sherlock’s face in his palm, thumb brushing oh so gently along his cheekbone. “What if I _want_ to hear you say that?”

“John,” he chokes out but his throat closes around the rest of it.

“Yes, Sherlock.” John scoots forward, brushing his knees against Sherlock’s, hand never moving.  

“I… can’t,” he blurts, scrambling to his feet and bolting for the sliding glass door leading to the patio. To hell with the weather.

“Sherlock, don’t!” he hears John say but anything else is drowned out by the gasp that leaves his lips when the rain hits his skin.

The cold is a shock to his system, water immediately pelting his eyes and making him stumble through the darkened garden. His foot catches on a fallen branch and he curses, remembering that yes, he is in his pajamas, yes, he is barefoot, and yes, he is now very, _very_ wet.

“Sherlock!” John shouts, sounding much closer and, sure enough, a hand closes around his bicep a moment later, halting him from stepping off the stone path into the blackness of the woods. John followed him, because of course he did. Stupid, _stupid_ man.  

“Go back inside.”

“No. Don’t…” John chokes, “don’t leave me behind again.”

Sherlock tries to pull his arm out of John’s grip, even as his lower lip wobbles, but the stubborn man holds firm.

“ _Please_!” And the sheer desperation in John’s voice is what finally gets Sherlock to stop fighting. Gets him to turn and finally face what he’s been running from.

It’s what he should have been running toward all this time:

John Watson. Soaked to the bone and staring at him as if Satan himself would not remove him from Sherlock’s side.

“I don’t know what you want,” Sherlock whispers, almost hoping the pitiful sentence is drowned out, but John - ever reliable John - hears him above the storm.

“I want to come home,” he confesses, a tear dropping onto his cheek and losing itself quickly in the rain. “I want to come home to you.”

And that’s it. That’s the code that crumbles Sherlock’s defenses, that tears down the battlements and rams at the gate. “I’m in love with you,” he breathes and John closes his eyes as the rest of his tears fall.

He brings their foreheads together and threads his fingers through the wet hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock shivers and it has nothing to do with the cold.

“I love you too,” John whispers against his lips. It’s not a kiss, which is fine for Sherlock because right now, his transport feels as if it’s overheating in its effort just to process… everything. To contemplate this new reality.

“You do?”

“Of course I do, you idiot,” John chuckles, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, and tightening his hold on the back of his neck. “Since… since the beginning, if I’m honest.”

Sherlock wants to laugh because it’s all just so _ridiculous_ but a rather embarrassing noise that sounds all too like a sob escapes instead.

“Oh, love,” John breathes before pulling him and pressing their lips together. It does nothing to help the tears that are streaming down Sherlock’s face, but he gets his arms around John’s waist and clasps his wrists behind his back, deciding then and there to never, ever let go.

John’s lips are soft and wet, and Sherlock can’t help but grip his sodden t-shirt in his hand and twist it around his fingers as his bottom lip fits perfectly in between John’s.

Air finally becomes a necessity (because Sherlock’s ability to multitask while snogging John is nil) and he pulls away with a gasp, panting into the wind.

“All right?” John murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to Sherlock’s adam’s apple that has him digging his fingers into John’s back.

“Uh huh,” he manages and John chuckles.

“You sure?”

Sherlock looks down and smiles, understanding contentment for the first time in his life. “Yes, John.” He dives back in for another kiss, which John gladly gives him. He’s started to shiver and John forsakes his lips to pull him into a warm, sturdy hug.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against the shell of his ear. “I’ve got you.”

Sherlock sighs and allows John to take a bit more of his weight as they start to gently sway. He isn’t even sure if John knows he’s doing it - rocking him like he rocks Rosie after a nightmare. If all of his evenings ended like this, Sherlock thinks that might not be such a bad thing.

“We should head back in,” he eventually murmurs, though, when the temperature gets to be a bit too biting.

“Well, we have been standing like this for quite a while now,” John replies impishly. “You may need to help me let go.”

Sherlock buries his face into John’s hair and sighs. “And if I don’t want you to let go?”

John smiles, leans back, and presses a quick kiss to Sherlock’s chin. “Okay,” he says simply.  

“But it is three in the morning,” Sherlock murmurs after a moment. “And it’s raining.”

John tugs his wet collar away from his neck with a muttered, “Quite” and Sherlock can’t help but dive down and press a kiss to his pulsepoint, pulling a muffled groan from John that Sherlock wants to hear again and again.

“Let’s go get our girl,” John whispers, finally stepping away and lacing his fingers through Sherlock’s. But the man himself can only stand there thunderstruck as John’s words echo throughout the chambers of his mind palace.

_Our girl._

The gentle tug on his fingers is the only thing that snaps him out of his trance.

“C’mon, you ridiculous man,” John laughs, leading him back to the house. They’ll need to warm up and dry off, and talk more but that can wait until morning. Until sleep is had and wrongs made right.

Sherlock glances down at their entwined fingers and thinks that there can be no wrong when John is in the lead. The house is quiet when they pull open the door, pausing for a moment on the mat to ring out the bottoms of their trousers. Two towels have been left on the floor and Sherlock smiles, wondering how mad James thinks they must be to sort out their feelings in a gale.

He and John always did do things their own way, he supposes.

Somewhat dry (or least no longer leaving puddles), they enter the kitchen to find James sitting at the table with a passed out Rosie in his lap. Even Alice has given up and curled up on her bed in the corner.

James glances down at their clasped hands and smiles knowingly. “Knew you’d get there eventually,” he says to John, who ducks his head, ears reddening.

“Yes, well…” he trails off and offers Sherlock a shy smile. “Sorry to, uh…” he gestures to Rosie who’s face is pressed over James’ beating heart.

“Not a burden, I assure you,” James replies. “I put replacement pajamas out on your bed. Why don’t you two dry off and I’ll hang onto her until you’re ready.”

“Okay,” John manages, tugging Sherlock with him out of the kitchen, but not before Sherlock catches the proud look James sends his way. He manages a sincere if sheepish smile in return before he’s shepherded down the hall by John’s firm grip. 

The pajamas have been left on John’s bed - more sweats and tees from James’ training days - and Sherlock swallows as John hands him his pair. Bit cheeky of James to assume they’d both be returning to John’s room.  

“Here, uh - I may just - “ John gestures to the bathroom vaguely. “Just to warm up real quick. Shower, I mean.”

“Ah, right,” Sherlock replies, equally stilted. “I may make use of the en suite in my - that is, in the room I’m - um, the other one.” _Eloquent, Holmes._

John lips quirk and he nods. “All right. Meet you back here, then?”

Sherlock nods because that’s a thing they do now - meet back up.

The shower is a blessed relief against the stiff chill that seemed to have taken up in his bones. Sherlock turns into the spray, but it does nothing to wash away the feel of John’s lips against his own.

 _“I want to come home,”_ John had said, fulfilling all of Sherlock’s fervent fantasies.

Home.

Baker Street has not felt like one, even though every detail, every bullet hole, and every swipe of Michigan hardcore propellant light yellow was replaced with painstaking detail. Truth be told, it hasn’t felt like home since he pushed the door open to find the majority of his things in boxes and John’s things gone. It was the tidiest he had ever seen his life, packed and labeled in Mycroft’s familiar scrawl. And it was that fact alone that nearly buckled Sherlock’s already waning resolve - that Mycroft didn’t delegate Sherlock’s last request. His brother himself stored away his life, labeling the science equipment for the local schools, the personal effects for his parents. And then there was the box labeled JW. Sherlock still doesn’t know what Mycroft decided John might want. He hasn’t had the heart to look. It still sits under what must be inches of dust on the shelf in his closet, waiting for the man to whom it’s addressed to come collect it. That dark time was the receding of the water line, but now -

Now it’s time for the tide to come back in.

There are longer conversations to have, but for now, Sherlock is happy (terrified, but happy) to navigate these new waters.

He pads down the hall, wet tips of his hair brushing his neck and making him shiver. The door to John’s room is slightly ajar and Sherlock can hear the shower in the en suite beyond. He inhales and clasps his hands behind his back in an effort to keep them from shaking. The events of the evening have rendered his transport rather undependable.

Sherlock glances into the living room and watches as the dying light of the fire dances across the carpet and their discarded scotch glasses. He turns the corner, the light from the kitchen filtering into the dark hallway, and hovers in the doorway - James hasn’t moved an inch.

“Come collect your daughter,” he murmurs, shifting Rosie on his lap with his good arm.

Sherlock huffs out a breath like he’s been punched in the gut, but doesn’t (for once) correct him. Instead, he shuffles forward and reaches out for the sleeping child, pulling her into his arms and guiding her head to his shoulder. She sleepily grunts, not quite awake, before settling again and fisting her fingers in his shirt. He presses his lips into her hair and closes his eyes, trying to come to terms with the fact that this is now _his._

“James?” he whispers, slightly swaying back and forth.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Thank you,” he breathes, finally dragging his eyes up to meet the man who probably still holds a part of John that Sherlock will never have. And Sherlock is shockingly okay with that. More than, actually.

“I didn’t do anything,” James replies, a small smile on his face.

“But you did,” Sherlock insists, feeling the weight of the little girl in his arms. “You absolutely did.”

Before James can offer any sort of rebuttal, a throat clears behind them and they both turn to find John standing in the doorway. It’s becoming a habit.

“Hey,” he says, expression unbearably soft as he stares at Sherlock holding his daughter.

“Hey,” Sherlock manages, tongue feeling too large for his mouth. Heart feeling too full for his chest.

Silence descends, the two just staring at each other, dopey smiles on each of their faces.

James finally stands with a grunt and an amused chuckle as he steps forward and claps John on the shoulder, offering Sherlock just a gentle squeeze, not wanting to jostle Rosie. “I’m off. Too much excitement for one evening.”

Sherlock delights as John’s ears go pink.   

“Goodnight, James,” he murmurs with a nod as James goes. He clears his throat and looks up at Sherlock beneath his lashes. “Shall we?”

But Sherlock can only nod because what does that even _mean_? Shall we what?

They hit the light switch as they exit the kitchen, and Sherlock follows John to his room because he’s holding his daughter - where else is he going to go? She must sleep in a bed and the bed she sleeps in is John’s, but Sherlock’s heart still kicks to a gallup as John enters his room and holds the door open for Sherlock to follow.

“Where do you want her?” he asks and John points to the wall of pillows lined up along the edge of the bed.

“On the other side of that.” He snorts. “Not that a pile of feathers and cotton would stop her, the mobile menace.”

Sherlock smiles as he steps forward and gently lowers Rosie to the bed. He has to gently unhook her fingers from his shirt and he only pauses for a moment before he presses a kiss to her forehead, reminding himself firmly that he’s allowed to do this now.

He feels John’s hand on his back as he retreats and makes room for John to press his own kiss to Rosie’s cheek.

The air is thick and heavy with… something, and Sherlock inhales deeply in an effort to just get enough air into his lungs. It’s just John. Just John and Sherlock.

Why is this so hard?

 _Because you’ve ever been_ **_just_ ** _anything_ , a small voice says. It sounds annoyingly like The Woman.

“Well…” he blinks at the floor and watches as John’s sock-clad feet come into view, “goodnight.”

“Whoa, hey,” John says, interrupting his exit by getting a hand on his arm. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Sherlock cocks his head, gaze flitting across John’s earnest but anxious expression. “Bed?”

“Would you - do you think you could…” John laughs and shakes his head, letting go of Sherlock’s arm and scratching the back of his head. “Just… stay with me,” he eventually mutters toward the floor and Sherlock’s stomach drops. “Please.”

“Oh,” he whispers, thinking that, no, this really isn’t hard at all. “Okay.”

John’s head whips up with a sudden grin and he bashfully glances back towards the bed, gesturing vaguely. “Do you have a side?”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrows and nods toward Rosie. “Does it matter?”

John chuckles as he makes his way over. “True.” He pads over to the far side and pulls the covers back, settling into the middle of the bed without jostling Rosie. It’s a feat of grace and agility that Sherlock honestly thought John incapable of.

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll roll over and smother her in the middle of the night?” he asks, almost afraid to approach the bed.

John smiles down at Rosie on his right before patting the empty space beside him on his left.

“She’s sturdier than she looks.”

“Of course,” Sherlock quietly scoffs, sitting on the edge of the bed. “She’s a Watson.”

John’s smile lights up the dim room as Sherlock swings his legs onto the bed. John flips the covers back on them both, before leaning over Sherlock’s body to switch off the light.

But his courage seems to desert him in the darkness.

“Relax,” John murmurs after a stiff moment, head close to his on the pillow.

“I am relaxed.” But he’s not. His heart is racing the Monaco Grand Prix and John must hear, he _must_ , because his hand comes up a moment later and gently presses against the traitorous left side of his chest.

“Breathe,” he whispers.

“This is all… new for me,” Sherlock finally, quietly, admits.

John’s swallow is audible in the heavy silence of the room. “It’s new for me too.”

Rosie grunts in sleep and turns over, giving John an elbow to the kidney. He winces and chuckles, fixing Sherlock with an arched eyebrow.

“And this is why I don’t worry about smothering her. She’d kick my arse without even waking.”

“Watson,” Sherlock reminds again.

“Watson-Holmes,” John amends.

And the universe just… freezes: the wind outside, the rain in the clouds, the very earth on its axis.

“What?” he dumbly asks.

John licks his lips and scoots forward, nose nearly brushing Sherlock’s for how close they are. “I don’t want her to grow up calling you Sherlock,” he whispers.

“Why not? It’s my name.”

John smiles fondly. “I’m aware, but I thought something along the lines of Papa might be more appropriate.” He suddenly looks nervous. “If you’re… if you’re okay with that.”

And that’s it. That’s what breaks him. He gasps as his forehead creases and his eyes squeeze shut, spilling sudden tears onto his cheeks. It’s embarrassing, to be sure, but there’s no stopping it. No stopping the sudden tidal wave of emotion, of feeling, of _being_ that’s threatening to consume his very soul.

“Oh, love, no,” John breathes, getting an arm around his back and hooking his leg over Sherlock’s hips, thoroughly cocooning him in his embrace.

Sherlock presses his face into John’s neck, hiding in an effort to collect himself as John gently rocks him back and forth.

“Even if whatever this is doesn’t…” John trails off and inhales, “even if it isn’t what you want, your place in my daughter’s life is what _I_ want. It’s what she wants, too. But know that this, you and me,” he says, leaning back so he can cup Sherlock’s cheek, thumb brushing away one of Sherlock’s many tears, “I’m in it for the long haul.”

Sherlock swallows and nods, incapable of words at the moment. He hopes it accurately conveys the passionate _Me, too_ that his throat is holding hostage.

“Yeah?” John asks, watery eyes sparkling.

Sherlock nods again and manages a whispered, “Yes.”

“Thank Christ for that that,” John mutters before crashing Sherlock’s lips to his own once more.

Sherlock lets out a rather undignified yelp, but he recovers quickly, fingers tangling in John’s shirt and tugging him as close as he possibly can get. He wants to fuse himself to the very core of John Hamish Watson or at least die in the attempt.

The initial spark of passion simmers down to a glowing ember, mindful of the child asleep on the other side of the bed. They remained tangled in each other, though, foreheads pressed together and sharing the same breath.

It’s the best night’s sleep Sherlock’s had in years.

xxxxxx

Sunlight streams through the window and Sherlock blinks groggily, itemizing all that seems to be just a bit _off._

There’s a heartbeat under his ear and fingers in his hair. His leg is hooked over someone else’s and his hand is tangled in the fingers of the one not currently threaded through his curls.

He smiles with a contented inhale and burrows his nose into John’s warm neck, pulling a warm hum out of the man beneath him who holds him just a bit tighter.

Yes, Sherlock could get used to this new normal.

It wasn’t bound to last, though, because without even opening his eyes or feeling beside him, John suddenly bolts upright, knocking Sherlock off his chest and frantically cataloguing the room.

And only then does Sherlock realize what (or who) is missing.

“Rosie!” he finds himself blurting even as John kicks the covers back and throws the partially-ajar door open, hurrying into the hall with Sherlock hot on his heels.

The living room proves to be empty, even as an exuberant Alice greets them halfway to the kitchen. But when they skid to a stop in the doorway, they breathe a collective sigh of relief.

Rosie kneels on the bench at the table in an effort to reach her plate, syrup covering half of her face and fork brandished high as if in victory. “Dada!”

“Hello, sweetheart,” John replies, slightly dazed from the panic of the past few minutes.

“Morning,” James drawls, turning towards them with flour covering the majority of his person. “She wandered into the living room about an hour ago. I figured I’d let you two sleep,” he says with a sheepish grin.

“I didn’t even realize she was tall enough to reach the handle,” John manages, staring at his daughter with newfound trepidation.

“She’s wily, that one,” James laughs, turning back to Rosie, who had risen to standing in the interim. “Knees please, Miss Watson.”

She immediately sits back down with nary a grumble and John shakes his head in wonderment. “What the hell happened in here?”

“Pancakes.”

“Cakes!” Rosie offers.

And Sherlock, who’d been silent and still ever since entering, cannot take the scene laid out in front of him anymore. He strides forward and wraps his arms around the child at the table, pressing a fierce kiss into her blonde curls.

“Sher,” she squirms so he lets her go, stepping back and staring into eyes so like her father’s.  She holds her fork out with a wobble and he bites the bit of pancake off the end.

“Thank you, my darling girl,” he murmurs, mouth full.

She leans forward and presses a sticky kiss to his cheek in reply and he wonders if it’s truly possible to die from happiness. Science says no, but the experts have been wrong before.

“Sleep well?” James asks with an arched eyebrow and John’s cheeks immediately flush, gaze flicking to Sherlock with a shy smile.

“Yes, thank you,” he murmurs, before clearing his throat, expression suddenly serious. “Thank you for… all of it. For everything.”   

James offers a nod, which John returns. An agreement between soldiers.

The moment is effectively broken when a pancake slides from Rosie’s plate onto the floor where Alice rapidly scarfs it up.

“Sod!” Rosie shouts as John and Sherlock blink down at her.

“I believe we have Daddy to thank for that one,” Sherlock murmurs after a moment, before Rosie pipes up again.

“Sod! Dead!”

More silence.

“Yeah, that one’s all you,” John replies and Sherlock can’t help but agree.

The rest of the morning passes in much of the same domestic delight, and John’s hands never stray far from Sherlock’s body - a hand on his thigh under the table, fingers tracing the curls at the nape of his neck, lips pressing a kiss to his shoulder as they sit side by side.

If James finds the sudden public displays of affection bothersome, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he actually looks quite chuffed at himself for making it all happen.

Showers are had (separately - one step at a time, thank you very much), bags are packed, and goodbyes are said. Sherlock gets one last cuddle with Alice as John straps Rosie into her carseat, before stepping back and shaking James’ hand. The handshake becomes a hug and something in Sherlock’s chest warms at the sight.

He gets his own turn with James next, giving the man a hug as well. He’s not a hugger, only if the situation calls for it, but seeing as he’s returning to Baker Street with a partner (in every sense of the word) and a daughter thanks to this man, a hug seems to be the least he can do.

“Take care of them,” James murmurs as he steps away and Sherlock nods, much like John did in the kitchen. A promise from a brother in arms.

John gets behind the wheel and Sherlock moves around to the passenger side as James scoops Alice into his arm and sticks his head into the car to say goodbye to Rosie. She shrieks out a giggle as Alice gives her a good lick on her cheek and James places a kiss on her forehead.

“Be good for your Daddy and Papa,” James murmurs and Rosie nods seriously, as if understanding exactly what she’s agreeing to. He steps away from the car and puts Alice on the ground so he can shut the door with his good arm, giving the vehicle a thump.  

 _Papa._ He referred to Sherlock as Papa.

“Did you tell him?” he asks as John starts the car with a frown.

John pauses and turns toward him. “I thought you did.”

But Sherlock merely shakes his head.

“Smug git,” John murmurs with a fond chuckle, rolling down the window and waving as they start down the drive.  

Sherlock watches the wind rustle John’s silver and gold hair, listens as Rosie giggles at the passing greenery, and prepares himself to leave the surprising bliss of James’ seclusion behind.

“What do you think, Rosie?” John suddenly says, breaking him from his reverie. “Shall we go home to Papa?”

Rosie nods emphatically in Sherlock’s direction as if she _knows_ that he’s Papa, and his throat goes tight as tears prick the corners of his eyes. He inhales a shuddering breath and John, without taking his gaze off the road, reaches over and threads his fingers through Sherlock’s, thumb tracing the hollow of his palm.

 _“Your own death is something that happens to everybody else. Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it,”_ he had once said.

And he was right. His life does not belong to him.

It belongs to them _._

And he will gladly live it in the service of others because there’s no safer place in the world for his life to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The titles comes from "The Burning of the Leaves" by British wartime poet Robert Laurence Binyon


End file.
